September 21, 2009

It could have been the duck. Or maybe the rice pudding. I don't know but something I ate that night got me sick. I was with my mom and my best friends and my boyfriend. We dined and laughed and drank wine at a French bistro around the corner. And it was a fun night. My mother got a glimpse into my life. My friends got to see the woman who gave birth to such a monster. And my boyfriend got to spend time with my mother. I have never loved anyone the way I love them both. So it was special.

So special was the meal that at 5AM the next morning I woke with food poisoning. Obviously, I make daring choices with food or I am prone to bacterial infections. Either way, I puked. I pulled myself together enough to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with my mother. We even managed to put together a fantastic meal of sangria and paella. But I still felt saddened. Weak. When physically ill I get depressed. In those fits of sorrow I want to cry for no reason. Things appear worse than they are indeed. I just want to stay in bed and not talk.

And thankfully I am not drawn to depression like members of my family. I don't know if I could take it for longer than a brief encounter. I burst into tears this weekend reading about Iraq and extremist groups using internet chat rooms to track down and murder gays. I cried when I thought of Jimmy Carter's comments, backed up by the man I wish ran the country, Bill Maher, that racism is bubbling up at town hall meetings, marches on Washington, and in the chambers of congress. I was emotional.

I also get sad when talking about politics with my mother. My mother instilled in her children, whether she knew it or not, an outlook on the world of that included fairness, equality, and compassion. She was a liberal. I was proud of her. She worked hard and bettered the lives of others via that hard work. She never judged. She always cared.

She's changed. And this is not a judgment call. But my mom is not the person she once was, or perhaps, not who I thought she was. She is in the middle. Not a liberal. And I am saddened to think that this beautiful, caring, compassionate outlook on the world has been replaced with something that does not trust. That does not want to help others as much.

I want my mother and I to have the same political beliefs. And we don't. And that causes me much grief and I cannot tell you why it bothers me so. And perhaps it is arrogant that I want, and feel the need, for her to share my beliefs. But this health care debate and the protest signs and the town hall loonies and the tea party movement smeared in racism and the real threat of losing my lover, a non-American, because of marriage laws all have made me swell with emotion and anger. And I want my mother to sympathize and understand. But I don't know if she does.

Yet, she still makes me smile. And it is great pleasure to be around someone, who without telling you, makes it obvious the pride that exists in her heart. It is in the crack of her odd voice. And in the glimmer in her eye. I can only imagine the sensation of watching a child become a man. She lets me know just how amazing that sensation must feel. And she does not even need to tell me.

I barely mustered enough energy to see my mom out the door. I was still sick and she's fine on her own. Georgi could not believe I did not accompany her to the train station or at least to catch a cab. But that is it right there. We're individuals. We don't need unnecessary showings of love or caring. It's deeper than all those rituals of what mothers do for sons and vice versa. We've always been more friends. Even if we disagree on the state of union.

And then she was gone. On the train to BWI. And so I joined G for brunch with his friend Christopher and then, later, drank wine with Denise and Alireza and Eric and we, along with Georgi, went to wish Dusti and Juli a goodbye. They're leaving NYC. I was their first friend here, and though there were some awkward feelings due to Ben's presence as well, their party was a fitting send-off. Bubby's BBQ and pies. Grey Goose Martinis. The Naked Cowboy (seriously, they hired him). And the Empire State visible from the rooftop party. Too bad my mom missed this party.

In Sunday's paper was a story of a man. Steven Schnipper was his name. Reading about him in the 1970s sounded like me (and many other gays who escape to NYC for the obvious reasons). "He loved museums, architecture, reading, first edition books, the theater, seeing four movies in one day with his friend Annette Williams; the clothes at Barneys, Bergdorf and Armani; cosmetics counters, face creams, spas, manicures and pedicures; travel; five-star hotels; Swiss Style design; Helvetica typeface; the simple beauty of a straight, clean line." I was not kidding, was I?

Steven and I met last August. I interviewed him at DWR and he charmed the socks off me. His extensive background in graphic design, his education, his work history (Lauder and Knoll) were all very impressive. And he was overly qualified to be a shop girl like myself. The story in the Times is about how a talented man lost a few jobs, struggled with his mortgage, and ultimately killed himself. Not getting the job at DWR was referenced in the story. It hit me in the stomach. Not because I somehow thought I was in the least bit part of the story. But because I see many a similarity between Steven and me. And I think of the sadness that consumes me when I am physically ill and I wondered what life must be like to experience that when you're otherwise healthy. That is a scary thought. A friend on Facebook wrote "very sad but then again, cockroaches fight for their lives..." in response to when I posted the Times story on Steven's life and suicide. At first I found Joel’s remark insensitive. But the more I thought about it I found it to be inspirational. Life is not always going to be easy. Everyone is not always going to agree with you. Even your mother. But at the end of the day we're left with a choice: to fight or not.

I'm a slugger and always will be. And you can thank my mom for those fighter's fists.